


even god needs a break

by loveortoxicradiation



Category: Lucifer (Comic)
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveortoxicradiation/pseuds/loveortoxicradiation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of non-involvement, Elaine reacts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	even god needs a break

None of it can stay with her, never for long. Omniscience and omnipresence can be such a buzzkill. Sometimes, Elaine forgets she has a name. She forgets she has an identity separate from the fabric of reality. She forgets all but her drive to continue.

She’s not sure she has a Self, anymore. But she has Will in spades.

-

At some point, she sees familiar faces. Relative to when they last saw her, it might be centuries later. Possibly a millennium.

She hears her name.

She looks.

It’s the imp, Spera, at the doorstop of Mazikeen. There’s a scroll clutched in her hands and she stares up, agitated, her wings fluttering about her; occasionally, they lift her from the concrete an inch or so.  

“Can’t get a hold of Elaine for nothing. You have to know how to reach her, Maz. Aren’t you her Aunt now or something?”

“She’s the God of all Creations,” says Mazikeen, leaning against the door frame. “Try praying.”

“Tried that! No luck. Goes straight to voicemail, so to speak.” She opens the scrolls in her hands. It’s old, yellowing, with pieces missing, covered in markings. “It’s been a long time since I took prayers, but with numbers like these there’s usually at least an omen telling the person to bugger off. I’m worried about her.”

“She’s literally ineffable. Don’t worry about her.”

Mazikeen rests her hand on the edge, obscuring the beak of the filligree peacock. It makes Elaine wonder when her simple tastes might have changed.

(Afterwards, Mazikeen travelled with Beatrice. The Lilim would ask her to lead them again; she refused them each time. She did not forget her vengeance against Jill Presto but she waited, took her life when there was little of it left. She was surprised that she could be so merciful. There were gardens filled with blank-faced, lithe, plant women, serving Lilith water; they tried to take Mazikeen’s sword and mask. Long ago, in a sandy beach outside Eden, she was small, and soft, with a pointed stick. She—)

The door shuts.

Spera rolls up her scroll, and folds her wings against herself, shielding her dress from the wind. She ambles away.

Elaine does something very, very rash.

She breaks from intangibility.

“Please, don’t go,” she says.

Spera stops, but she does not reply.

“You were worried about me?”

“Try a material form,” the imp says, gently. “I’m not going to talk to the sky, here.”

She checks to see where Spera is in Creation. At first, she fills a hundred kilometres, still, cannot make herself more than vapour. She focuses.

Be small. Be small. _Exist._

“Shit.” Spera gapes. “Um, Elaine. Your. Your arms are still backwards.”

She blinks, owlish, through thunderstorms. The arms twist the right way round.

Something’s still missing. Her legs are boulders. She fixes them.

Still, Spera stares. It has Elaine at a bit of a loss. Then she remembers—clothes. She materializes a short dress from iridescent scales. The clouds spilling about her head transmute into pigtails, of matching colors.

She always felt self conscious about her hair, at school.

Spera throws the scroll to the ground, behind her back. She waves with the other hand. “Howdy,” she says, voice warm.

“You were worried about me?”

“You never answered my calls. Even God needs a break every thousand years or so.”

She never meant to take so long.

She couldn’t interfere.

She feels exposed. She folds her arms. “We’re talking, now. Tell me things.”

The imp gesticulates, airy. “Figured we could have a repeat of the girl’s night out. Just you and me. We can talk at a bar, have some fun. You still know what fun is, right?” She laughs.

Elaine doesn’t remember the last time something made her happy.

(She can remember the last time she made someone else happy—the smile on her mother’s face, without the memories of her daughter.)

She beams, pulls Spera into a tight hug, nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, let’s,” she says.

“Ouch. Watch where you’re pointing all that sunshine, toots.”

Spera climbs out of her grasp. Her wings stretch, catch the eddies spinning around Elaine of their own accord; she spins around the girl, and swoops down to catch her hand, to pull her along.

It could move Elaine as effectively as a lasso could move a mountain. She steps out of time, looks for a suitable venue; there’s a cozy centaur pub, filled with patrons for the storyteller festival, there’s free-flowing food and a suitable noise level. She thinks she might recognize a descendant of a boy she knew.

She lets time snap back, once they arrive.

Spera doesn’t let go of her hand.

The entire night, she doesn’t forget.


End file.
